William Allen Mahan
Below is a blurb I wrote for the online composers network, back when Tomas was known as Tomas Hart. As luck would have it, work came pouring in just as he was starting on "The Game", and the only piece on the web site can be found under 'Film Clips'. Soon, soon, we hope.
Although all intellectual property belongs to Bill's son, Kerrigan, Bill's ex-wife Patte wrote "The Game," and she owns it. She very kindly sent me a letter turning it over to Tomas and myself. Now I wish life would settle down and we could get on to it, but I cannot complain. It will be re-scored and have a screening before we are totally gray haired.Film Music News
Film Archive Personal Treasure being re-scored
Date Posted: 06/18/2005 11:08 PM Views: 949
My father, William A. Mahan, died over two and a half years ago. He was a child actor who, as an adult, worked in many of the aspects of the film business. I lucked upon a video transfer of a short film he shot titled "The Game". I approached composer Tomas Hart to make a DV of it and consider re-scoring it, as the original score was a bit dated, despite being written by the Industry's most well known and well respected music editor, Kenneth Wannberg. Wannberg's score worked fine for the early sixties, but the quality of the film itself holds up and transcends time with Hart's modern, melancholy take on the material. After many months of work, as Hart was fitting it into an already crowded schedule, it will soon be complete and clips will soon be shown on the Tomas Hradcky website.
I cannot thank him enough for the care and dedication he has brought to this project, not to mention an absolutely heartbreakingly beautiful score.
Kelly Mahan Jaramillo
I had no idea that it would be posted and circulate on the internet, this was three months before I met Tara Zucker, who very generously guided me into this world. Three months later, I had my own political satire column at DeadBrain, thanks to Tara, and the irony of it was not lost on me. My father wrote a syndicated column for years here in Los Angeles, and it was his best writing. He always urged me to write a column, although we did not really agree on the topic.
"You were a druggie!" he would shout. "Write what you know, that is the first rule. The second one is to have a hook. Do you know what I mean by that?"
"No." I would grumble, cranky that after years of sobriety, I was still considered an expert on drugs. My idea had been about women in the workplace, which I was just as familiar with as I was being, as he put it, "a druggie".
"My hook is that I am always the butt of the joke - the column starts out promising, but I always mess things up." He looked at me and smiled, and for the first time I noticed that when he was not telling me what I should and should not do, or having just one bourbon too many, his eyes were quite sorrowful.
"And I write what I know," he finished, getting up to pour himself another drink.
I think he really would have loved my column. I would like to think that he can see it from wherever he has gone after life. It is juvenile, I know, but it brings me comfort.
A Quick Clarification.
From the above post, I want to be more specific. I have not had years of sobriety in the AA or NA sense - It had been years since I had been the slave girl to the big bad boy, heroin. I was, and still am, by no means 'sober' in the traditional sense. I wrestle with alcohol all of the time, lately I have been winning because it is finally starting to sink into my thick little skull that alcohol is an extremely athletic and accurate swimmer - after saying a few nice things, she goes straight to the box labeled "suicidal" and the other box "insane anger", paddles over to "depression" and makes herself a little cocktail! I don't want that bitch in my house!
But she's so pretty, isn't she?
Not this last time. She is starting to age, and not well. She is becoming a bore, and god knows we hate to be bored. So, in the spirit of not being bored with the same old gal, we Iggy Pop'd her. We're Bored with her. Hopefully, we will stay bored.
And keep an eye out for the shape-shifter that is the demonette alcohol. Some women you really can live without.
COMING SOON: The prologue from Bill's novel "What's Your Name and Telephone Number?" - originally it was written as a short story, and will be reprinted here, along with the book jacket.
Sooner than I thought!
And they say that only Jesus can raise the dead! Hi Dad, Merry Christmas.
I am so glad you are here.
And nothing has changed insofar as anxiety from 1974 to 2007.
I am so glad you are not having to re-live this mess. Talk about GroundHog Day.
Love,
Kel
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WHAT IS YOUR NAME AND TELEPHONE NUMBER?
PREFACE
This book was written specifically for the newly separated or divorced man during his first year alone. Some of it is entertaining and some of it may make you feel sad and confused. This is the story of a newly divorced, 42-year-old man who has just rounded the comer of that infamous first year.
If you are a newly available male you might use this as a guidebook. It could save you considerable money. It will serve to assure you that you're not a freak, a sex maniac nor ready for a trailer in some senior citizens' trailer park, even though it is equipped with everything from shuffleboard to sauna baths. It could lead you to a better route to the miserable way of life that lies ahead and it will tell you up front what to look for and look out for. It will lessen your anticipation, nerve strain, confusion, your hopes, dreams, agony and ultimate despair you are bound to face when you take on the world single-handed, in that first year.
You start in a mental fog, during those first baffling months. You'll run around with your thing at the ready, desperately looking for a friendly place to put it. In the last few months you'll still be running around in a fog, but your thing will be in a sling. From over-activity. You will have visited your personal physician or the health clinic several times, fearful that you have the clap, or something worse. If you're interested in your work, you'll throw yourself into it at times and at other times do anything to dodge it. You'll discover booze, or re-discover it. You'll spend a night in the slammer and pay a big fine for your madness at the wheel of the sports car you will eventually own. You'll dream a great deal more than usual. You'll worry about your mortality much more than you did when you were married. You'll consider suicide, but not as strongly as in the desperate months before you and your wife separated.
This book is a serious book. Although the experiences that follow may seem funny to you, let me assure you that they were not funny to me. The point is, I overcame. I think.
So I'd like to share that grisly first year with those of you who are just beginning. The following is a reprint of a short story I wrote just before I realized that I could no longer live with my wife. I include it in this preface to help you get a little better understanding of my mental condition barely a year ago.
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HEADLINE. . . . . six youths held in fatal stabbing of Norwalk honor student Investigators said the victim was apparently trying to defend another student being harassed by the group when the youths turned and chased him.
I continue to turn the pages of the morning newspaper as I sip my coffee. My mind isn't really on it because I'm behind in my newspaper column. The column is an essay type with an entertainment background. It is supposed t0 be humorous, but I don't feel very funny any more. Jerri, the cook, gives me a warm smile and asks do I want breakfast yet. I shake my head no and she comes out of the kitchen and sits down beside me at the counter. There is a quiet, comfortable camaraderie between us. I put down the paper and get up to pour more coffee. I pour Jerri a cup, too.
"Did you get your car fixed yet?" I ask.
"No, something's haywire with the insurance."
"How in hell are you managing without a car in this city?"
"Oh, Bill, I've managed without a car most of my life. " I sip my coffee and turn back to the newspaper.
HEADLINE. . . . .. guns seized from lockers at Junior High. A sawed-off shotgun and two pistols found in student lockers at Mt. Vemon Junior High School reportedly were being stored in preparation for a battle between rival youth gangs, investigators said Wednesday.
HEADLINE. . . . . Four men were indicted on perjury charges Wednesday by a Manhattan Grand Jury looking into gangland warfare in which Joseph (Crazy Joe) Gallo was killed last spring.
"Was it like this when you were young, Jerri?"
She smiles, sips her coffee and weighs her answer. I light a cigarette and wait.
"No, no, I can't say it was."
"Were you all hung up with anxieties'?"
"Hung up . . . no. But we had certain anxieties. I think maybe we were too damn busy raising kids and making a living to think about them as much as you people do today."
"I didn't know you had kids."
"Five. "
"Five! My God, what did your husband do to support them'?"
"He walked out."
"You mean he just walked out. . . just like that'?"
"Just like that."
A customer enters and Jerri goes to wait on him. I drink more coffee.
HEADLINE. . . . . Motion Picture Association says industry must censor itself or government will. I turn to the theatrical section.
IMAGES, a motion picture of the extra senses. Rated R. No one under 16 admitted without an adult. NIGHT CALL NURSES, the funniest, sexiest comedy of the year. Rated R. No one under 16 admitted.
LUNCH, an erotic film that breaks through barriers with such uncontrollable reality you'll find it hard to believe-lately some adult theaters (including ours) have advertised their hardcore films "for men and women." However, this movie is an exception.
LUNCH is not recommended for women. Quite frankly, we're afraid many women could be offended by LUNCH and we don't want to offend anyone. Adults only.
Whatever happened to Bogart, Cooper, Bette Davis and Spencer Tracy. .. BOYSTOWN, CASABLANCA and TREASURE OF SIERRA MADRE, I think. And what am
I doing, trying to put together and produce a motion picture titled A SMALL ADVENTURE IN THE MIDDLE WEST'? Who wants to finance or see a film about a man who can't shirk responsibility, a Mexican kid and a mangy mutt'?
Jerri finishes waiting on the customer and returns. Her coffee is cold so she throws it out and refills the cup. Mine also.
"Did you get any financial help from him'?"
"We never saw him again to this day:"
"Did you think you had a good marriage'? I mean up until the time he left'?"
She is very thoughtful. Her hands are spotless, yet she is wiping them steadily on her newly-starched white uniform.
"I thought we did. "
"Do you resent him for leaving'?"
"He did what he had to do. "
"Didn't you ever remarry'?"
"No. "
"Why'? You must have been a knockout. "
A group of people enter the coffee shop. Jerri grins at me and goes over to wait on them. I must get to the office and stark working. I turn quickly to the last section of the newspaper. I want to read it all.
HEADLINE. . . . . physician indicted on 30 drug charges.
HEADLINE. . . . . Prisoner slain at San Quentin.
HEADLINE. . . . . The U.N. failure on terrorism.
HEADLINE. . . . . 10 inmates reportedly run prison.
I must go. I leave some money for the nine cups of coffee I drank. My nerves are shot and the day hasn't begun. Jerri stops me on the way out.
"I had other chances. . . three different times."
"Why didn't you take one?"
"Kids. "
"Kids? How could that stop you?"
"They all wanted me to put them in boarding school. . . the men, I mean."
Realizing she is embarrassed, I make a joke.
"The men wanted to go to boarding school?"
"No, the men wanted the kids put in boarding school. "
She laughs. I laugh, too, and leave. I struggle all day and into the evening trying to get two good columns. I finish at 8:00. I leave and stop at a small cocktail lounge. I order a Manhattan. I cannot go home because I have had a disagreement with my wife which looms very serious. I need to think things out. The USC-UCLA football game is in its last minutes on the TV set over the bar. There are several young people on my right. The girl next to me is pretty. She needs a light. She doesn't really understand the football game. I try to answer her questions. She is beginning to get cozy with me. The game ends and UCLA loses in the last few seconds. I am disappointed. So is the girl, though she neither understands football nor attended either of the schools. She is divorced and has two small children. I ask her where they are and she doesn't want to talk about them. I ask several other questions and she doesn't want to answer them either. She turns and starts talking to a younger, more attractive man who has seated himself on her right. I order another Manhattan and listen to their conversation. Maybe I can learn something about how to talk to a young girl. Their conversation isn't much different from ours. I try to interject something. They ignore me. She whispers to the other guy that she is "horny." I go back to my Manhattan. The woman on my left is unattractive and fortyish. She is also drinking a Manhattan. Our eyes meet and I smile. She smiles back, but her eyes aren't smiling. They look watery and unfocused. She is drunk.
I arrive home late, and enter the house quietly. No one greets me but Shep, my long-time mongrel friend. He is happy to see me. His eyes are clear and his tail is fairly flying. I go into each bedroom and look at my three sleeping children. They are beautiful. I hurt all over. I make another Manhattan and light the 67th cigarette. I know it's the 67th because I have counted them carefully all day. I am smoking too much.
I undress slowly. My feet stink. This bothers me because I can't understand why. I showered and wore clean socks this morning. I always shower and wear clean socks. Why do my feet stink?
My wife is asleep. She has been having bad dreams lately and I look at her for a long time. Her face shows nothing. I wonder if she is having a bad dream right now. I can't get inside her and find out and this distresses me. I want to know. I look closer and see that she seems to have a very slight smile on her lips. Yes, yes, it is a smile. She looks happy. Maybe she is over the bad dreams. I lift up my mattress and take out the .32 calibre revolver that I've kept there for years. I turn it over and over in my hands. It is loaded. I think of the beginnings of the day. Coffee, newspapers and Jerri, who raised five kids alone on a waitress's salary because she wouldn't put them in boarding school. Not willing to sacrifice her kids for her own needs.
I drink what's left of the Manhattan and look closer at that face. The smile is gone, but it was there. I saw it. I put the gun back under the mattress and get into bed, hoping that I won't have bad dreams and become a headline, and knowing that a 20-year marriage is finished.
-The Author